The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  “He is a bit of a stuffed shirt, isn’t he?” Em said.

  “He has good qualities, too,” she protested.

  “What are they?” Thea said slyly.

  “Although he can be a bit old-fashioned… he’s an honorable man.”

  As she said the words, she realized the truth of them. Carlisle had protected her reputation after she’d made him a laughingstock. After they’d kissed, he’d made her an offer—true, it was the worst marriage proposal in the history of Christendom, but it was the intention that counted, wasn’t it? He’d even owned up to his mistakes, apologizing when he realized that he’d hurt her.

  “And despite his bluster, he’s kinder than he lets on,” she mused.

  Thea returned from the wardrobe with Vi’s evening gown. “According to Lady Blackwood, her husband has the highest opinion of Carlisle. Says he’s a gentleman’s gentleman, the kind of man you’d want at your back in a battle.”

  She thought of the Priest Hole, how he’d found it before she had. He was competitive, a man of action, and she admired that. And as annoying as his stubbornness could be, there was no denying his strength of will and commitment.

  “There is something reliable about him. And he’s a solid, quick-witted chap.” Why hadn’t she recognized his good qualities earlier?

  “Some gentlemen improve upon acquaintance,” Thea said as if reading her mind. “What we think of as pride might in actuality be a reserved nature. A sort of discomfort around others. I should know: when I first met Tremont, he seemed standoffish as well.”

  “His reserve didn’t last long around you, Thea,” Em said with a wink.

  Thea blushed.

  Emma adjusted a floaty sleeve. “Now, Vi, are you forming an attachment to Carlisle?”

  Leave it to her sister to hit the nail on the head. In the past, Violet might have tried to evade the question out of embarrassment. She was still far from comfortable sharing her feelings, but she was learning the benefit of being more open.

  “How would I know?” she asked. “How did the both of you know?”

  “I was attracted to Tremont from the moment we met. He was so handsome, and I felt tingles whenever he was nearby,” Thea said dreamily.

  Vi started a mental list.

  Tingles. Check.

  “Did you feel tingles too, Emma?” she asked.

  “Yes, but they were overshadowed by a strong desire to throttle Strathaven. His Grace was, without a doubt, the most frustrating man I’d ever met.” A grin tucked into Em’s cheeks as she worked on the buttons on the back of Vi’s dress. “He still is, bless him.”

  Frustration. Double check.

  “I know what you mean,” Violet said with feeling. “At times, Carlisle and I seem to bring out the worst in each other.”

  “In what way?” Em said.

  “Well, he has a tendency to be domineering and conservative. Whereas I’m, you know… me. I’m not exactly a run-of-the-mill miss.”

  “A hereditary condition, I’m afraid. Luckily, normality is an overrated quality.” Em shook Vi’s skirts into place. “Just ask our husbands who couldn’t give a whit about it.”

  “Tremont thinks I’m normal,” Thea said.

  Emma’s brows lifted. “You… who foiled the plot of a nefarious spy?”

  “Well, I can pass for normal.” Thea’s smile was demure. “Under exigent circumstances.”

  “The point being, the most important thing one can be in a relationship is oneself. Who else can one be after all?” Stepping back, Em inspected Vi. “I think you’re ready, dear. Go have a look in the looking glass.”

  Vi trotted over to the long oval mirror—and her lips tipped up in her reflection. She loved the rich hue accomplished by layering pale golden gauze over saffron satin. When she moved, the golden threads caught the light, glimmering. As the coup de grace, tiny golden blossoms had been embroidered onto the gauze, drifting playfully over the full skirts and piling up richly at the hem.

  Twisting this way and that, she breathed, “This gown is the utmost.”

  Her sisters’ smiling faces appeared behind her.

  “How lovely you are. The gown suits you perfectly,” Thea said.

  “And, in the end, finding the right husband is no different from finding the right dress. One must consider the fit,” Em said prosaically, “and whether or not he accentuates one’s best qualities. In his presence, one ought to feel confident and at one’s best.”

  Memories of Carlisle’s kisses and his warmly possessive touch caused a melting sensation in Violet’s midsection. Those times with Carlisle had been sublime. Despite the sisterly confidences shared this eve, however, she wasn’t quite up to revealing that tidbit.

  Passion aside, she wasn’t sure of the fit between her and Carlisle. Their connection felt both vibrant and fragile, like a breathtaking gown that could snag at any moment. She was beginning to recognize his good qualities… but was he seeing hers? When it came down to it, she wasn’t even sure he liked her.

  Swallowing, she said, “Given how we started, do you think it’s possible that Carlisle and I could learn to bring out the best in one another?”

  “Conflict is oft the prelude to romance,” Thea said in philosophical tones. “Remember how Emma and His Grace were when they first met?”

  “We’re still that way,” Em put in cheerfully, “but we have learned to compromise and that makes all the difference.”

  Compromise. Well, she would try. And that reminded her of something else.

  “Em, may I ask you a favor?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Would you speak to Ambrose about letting me join the investigation? I promise I’ll be guided by you, will act under your supervision. Please, Em,” she pleaded, “I know I can help, and I want to be a part of this.”

  Her sister studied her. “It’s that important to you, Violet?”

  “Remember how you felt when you were barred from helping Strathaven?”

  During the murder investigation that had brought Emma and His Grace together, the former had had to fight to be included in the proceedings. To be taken seriously… as Violet wished to be.

  “I remember. All too well.” Em gave a brisk nod. “I’ll talk to Ambrose, but I’m not guaranteeing anything will come of it.”

  “Thank you!” Vi threw her arms around her eldest sister. “You won’t regret it.”

  Em returned the hug, sighing, “I hope you’re right.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Richard stood with Blackwood in the ballroom after supper. The mirrored walls made the grand space appear even larger, magnifying the effect of the pink marble floors and crystal chandeliers. The night was surprisingly balmy, and the balcony doors that lined one side of the dance floor were left open, navy curtains stirring in the breeze.

  Whatever one could say about Billings, the banker did indeed know how to “handle” situations. As he’d predicted, the guests seemed remarkably blasé about the fact that Madame Monique had passed away the night before. The rough-and-tumble portion of the crowd was enjoying the fine victuals as if nothing had happened. The bluebloods, on the other hand, were speculating with titillated abandon over the cause of the “accident.” No one appeared distressed by the fact that a woman had been found dead in the library.

  “No reason to let a little thing like death get in the way of a good time.” Blackwood’s dry observation echoed Richard’s own. “Now if my sons were here, they’d be in tears. They adore Astley’s and Madame Monique in particular, God rest her. Speaking of which, how are you holding up, old boy? It can’t have been pleasant… finding her.”

  Although Kent’s plan was to keep details from the general public, the Blackwoods, being trusted friends, were an exception to the rule.

  “I’m fine.” Richard straightened as he saw Violet enter the room. By Jove, she was a vibrant bloom. The now familiar yearning gripped him. They’d been seated apart at supper, and he’d found himself missing her company. “It’s Miss Ken
t I’m worried about.”

  “Changed your opinion of her at last, have you?”

  Richard’s face flushed. Months ago, Blackwood had been on the receiving end of Richard’s tirade about Violet—those fateful, damnable words that had been overheard and turned into ugly gossip. Richard winced at the memory of his own stupidity, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could take those words back.

  “I was wrong,” he admitted. “In truth, my opinion has quite reversed.”

  “Oh ho. Is that the way the wind blows?” Blackwood raised his brows.

  “If I can persuade the lady in question to accept my suit.”

  Deep down, Richard wasn’t confident that he could. He’d spent the afternoon looking for Wickham at the house and local village, to no avail. When there was naught else he could do—except go mad with frustration and worry—he’d gone for a ride to clear his head.

  As he and Aiolos had galloped through the estate’s rolling fields, he’d let himself mull over his interactions with Violet. He was forced to conclude that he hadn’t acquitted himself well. Mostly he’d just harangued her and accused her of things. Self-recrimination had filled him. The truth was she deserved far more than the apology he’d given her.

  Recalling her tears and insistence that she was no watering pot, he felt a foreign and poignant ache in his chest. She was a spirited little thing and, he was beginning to understand, not one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. Beneath her carefree manner lay sensitivity and depth of feeling. She was nothing like the shallow flirt he’d first imagined her to be.

  As he broodingly watched Parnell, Goggs, and other gentlemen swarm around Violet, he recognized just how wrong he’d been. She wasn’t flirting with them. Now that he wasn’t blinded by his prejudice, he saw none of the usual female affectations. No eyelash batting, fan twirling, or coy laughter. Instead, Violet treated the rakehells the way she treated Wick… with warm and easy camaraderie. For God’s sake, she’d just punched Goggs in the arm.

  Those lads were her friends. Exactly as she’d claimed.

  Even as the notion relieved him, possessiveness surged. Richard realized that he didn’t want her consorting with other males, even if they were just her friends. He wanted her… for himself. To belong only to him. To achieve that, he would have to convince her to marry him. But he wasn’t certain how to achieve his goal. His previous attempts at courtship had proved abysmal failures, and God knew his dealings with Violet had been less than stellar.

  “Well you’re not going to woo her from over here.” Blackwood looked like he was fighting a smile—the bastard. “Go over and talk to her.”

  Richard was seized by uncharacteristic panic. “What should I, er, say?”

  The only topics that came to mind were murder, mayhem, and his missing brother—not exactly things to engender tender feelings in a lady.

  Grinning openly, Blackwood said, “Talk about the weather. The lovely music. How pretty her frock is.”

  “How pretty whose frock is?” Lady Blackwood asked, joining them.

  Blackwood drew his marchioness close, kissing her temple. “Miss Kent’s.”

  “Ah.” Lady Blackwood’s eyes sparkled at her husband. “So I was right?”

  “As always, my love.”

  Richard muttered, “So talk about her gown—that’s your advice?”

  “Actually, knowing Violet, I daresay she’d prefer a dance to small talk.” Lady Blackwood smiled. “And if you do converse, I’d recommend sporting topics over frippery.”

  “Sporting?” That sounded promising. Like something he could do with some level of competence. Yet he couldn’t recall any lady in his past who’d shared his interest in the subject. Intrigued, he said, “What kind of sports does Miss Kent enjoy?”

  “Come, Carlisle, it’s not as if she’s a stranger,” the marchioness chided. “Just be yourself and go talk to her.”

  Clearly, she didn’t know how disastrous being himself could be. But what other choice did he have? Very well, he would go over and do his best.

  As he made his way through the throng, he told himself Lady Blackwood was right. Violet wasn’t some stranger. He’d kissed her, known the inexpressible delight of bringing her to climax in his arms. But that was just it: in bedroom matters, he related to women just fine. It was in all other situations where they were enigmas to him. He didn’t know what they wanted, what would please them.

  Out of nowhere, an image sprang from a deeply buried place in his mind. His mama’s bedchamber, viewed through his thirteen-year-old eyes. He was on a rare visit home from Eton, and walking through the estate, he’d stumbled upon a field of daffodils. Thinking they were as lovely as his mama, he’d picked a bunch, hoping that they might please her. As he clutched the droopy blooms in his dirt-stained hands, he felt nervous excitement.

  Sitting at her vanity, his mama took his tribute gingerly, her face as cool and beautiful as the diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. How… singular, she’d said in her cultured tones. Is that mud on your hands? You’d best go clean it off. She’d turned back to the mirror.

  Later that day, he saw the daffodils again. Ragged and wilted, they lay discarded on a tray that his mama’s maid was removing from her room.

  He shoved aside the memory. Why would he think of such stupid things now? Violet didn’t have anything to do with his mother. Hell, she was unlike any other female he’d met.

  Given how different she was, he thought with sudden insight, perhaps he should… set aside his preconceived notions? Lord knew his assumptions about women hadn’t helped him thus far. Instead, he could try to discover what Violet wanted—and use that to win her over.

  Strategy in place, he made his way to her side with a determined stride, swatting other would-be beaux out of his way like the annoying gnats they were. When he reached Violet and her sister, he bowed.

  “Your Grace. Miss Kent,” he said.

  “Good evening, Lord Carlisle.” The duchess’ greeting was warmer than he expected. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Clearing his throat, he said to Violet, “That’s a pretty frock.”

  Her chestnut curls, pinned in glossy bunches over her ears, tipped to one side. “You like it, my lord?”

  “Indeed. It’s very… yellow.” God, he sounded like an idiot.

  “I believe the proper term for it is saffron, my lord.”

  Her tawny eyes were sparkling, and he thought she might be teasing him.

  “Are you perchance making fun of me, Miss Kent?” he said slowly.

  “Perhaps a little?”

  “Then in return I believe I shall claim a dance,” he heard himself say. “With your permission, Your Grace?”

  The duchess smiled. “Enjoy yourselves. I do believe the next one’s going to be a waltz.”

  To his everlasting luck, it was.

  He tucked Violet’s hand into the crook of his arm. Her gloved fingers were slender, dainty, and fit perfectly there. He escorted her toward the dance floor, proud as if he’d accomplished a monumental feat. Maybe he was better at this courtship business than he gave himself credit for.

  “Why are you smiling in that odd manner?” Violet eyed him speculatively.

  “No reason. I’m just, er, honored that you agreed to this dance.”

  “Oh.” Her lush sable lashes veiled her gaze. “It was, um, nice of you to ask.”

  Was she blushing? It gave him the courage to admit, “I’ve always wanted to.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What a bouncer. A few days ago, you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

  “That’s not true.” He led her onto the crowded dance floor. Carving out a space just for the two of them, he said, “Even when you infuriated me, I still liked looking at you, lass.”

  Her cheeks turned pinker. By Jove, if she liked his straight talking, he might have a decent shot at this after all. His confidence grew.

  “So, um, I still haven’t seen Wick,” she said. “Have you?”


  Richard had spent the last eighteen hours worrying and searching frantically for his brother. Suddenly, he wanted a few minutes for himself. The respite of a single dance. Was that too much to ask?

  He uttered words he’d never said before. “Wick can wait.”

  He positioned a hand above her waist, felt hers alight on his shoulder. Their free hands met and held in the air. Despite what they’d done in the dark, holding hands in the light filled him with sizzling awareness.

  From the way she shivered, he knew she felt it too.

  “Let’s enjoy this, shall we?” he murmured.

  The opening strains sounded. Gathering her close, he swung her into the waltz.

  ~~~

  Dancing with Carlisle was nothing short of a revelation.

  Before this, Wick had been Vi’s favorite partner because of his daring, the sheer outrageousness of his spins. She’d liked his wild approach because you never knew if you were going to crash, and the danger made it fun.

  Now she was discovering a far greater thrill.

  Carlisle spun her again, the strength and assuredness of his movement rustling a breathless laugh from her throat. He possessed the grace of a true athlete, and he partnered her as if they’d done this hundreds of times before. They whirled in unison, their speed building with the music, her heart pounding even faster as she gazed into his ore-flecked eyes.

  “Enjoying yourself, lass?” he said.

  “You’re a splendid dancer.”

  “That surprises you?”

  “A bit? Not because I think you have two left feet,” she hastened to say, “but I’ve never seen you dance before. I thought the activity might be too frivolous for you.”

  “Even we stuffed shirts like a good dance. And by now I should think you know that I enjoy physical activity of all kinds. When it involves you, that is.”

  His husky words turned her insides into sun-warmed honey, her nipples puckering beneath her bodice. Gadzooks, she’d found a gruff and scowling Carlisle attractive; now that he was flirting with her, he was irresistible.